


Fragile

by philos_manthanein



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Crushes, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Medical Professionals, Prosthesis
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-05
Updated: 2018-06-10
Packaged: 2019-01-09 12:27:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12276468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philos_manthanein/pseuds/philos_manthanein
Summary: A man with a broken arm tries to heal a man with a broken heart.





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: I have condensed the original chapters 1 & 2 into Chapter 1.

It's been a year or so, Deacon thinks, since Mika Lee helped them tear the Prydwen from the sky and uproot the Institute. Those events that changed so much, but so little, and feel both so far and so close in time. The Railroad has been working to keep the Commonwealth safe for the synths. Their allies, the Minutemen, have worked to keep the humans and ghouls safe, and to keep them from killing the synths outright.

It feels like they accomplished so much, but there's still so much left to do.

Deacon hasn't seen Mika in months. She's a busy lady. A lot of her friends weren't too happy with her ultimate decision to help the Railroad. He doesn't think she's in hiding, but he hasn't heard much about her from traders or agents or even the Minutemen. Maybe she decided to take a break. She deserved that much, after the whole “murdering my son to save the world” thing.

Life goes on. There is more work to do. Their bases, some shared with allies, are full of refugees and volunteers. They still have to sneak synths around, moving them when Brotherhood remnants venture too close. It's still a dangerous job, and Deacon has found himself caught more than once in a skirmish.

That's what brings him to this little settlement. He doesn't remember the name at the moment, though he's been here before. The bullet lodged in his left arm might account for the short-term memory loss, what with the burning pain and all.

The militia doctor is working carefully to extract it, without chems or meds because Deacon told him to save it for more important patients. Then he requested some liquor, since the doctor was going to use it as antiseptic anyway. The man rolled his eyes at the request, but honored it all the same.

Deacon knows him; seen him before in other camps. He's some sort of traveling medic that circuits around the settlements rendering aid. His name is Asa; a young guy with earthy brown skin and sun-bleached sandy brown hair.

His frame is strong but lean, and he's good at holding Deacon's arm still. The fact the right of Asa's arms is cybernetic probably helps. He usually keeps it covered under his layers of clothing and gloves unless he's operating, and only then he exposes it cautiously. It must mean he trusts Deacon, probably because of his link to the Railroad. Deacon thinks some of the more twitchy civilians would be unnerved by it.

Asa digs out the bullet and tosses it to the rickety wood floor of the town's makeshift infirmary. He comments that the slug was small and didn't break up, so there should be less trouble healing it with a stimpak.

“Give it to me straight, doc.” Deacon teases as he gulps down some whiskey from the bottle Asa was using to clean out the wound. “Am I gonna make it?”

“Unfortunately, yes. Give my condolences to Dez on your untimely survival.” Asa teases back, though his voice is muffled by the small gas mask over his face.

Asa makes more of an effort to try and keep things clean than most wasteland doctors. He always covers his mouth somehow, with the mask or a scarf. He always washes his hands, even the robot one, with water or liquor, even though Deacon's certain those things are rationed. That means Asa is probably cutting into his own personal supply to keep this operation as sterile as possible. It's almost flattering.

“So, how much is the bill gonna cost me? I don't have insurance.” Deacon jokes, then winces as Asa sticks a stim just above the wound.

He can feel all the muscle and skin pulling itself together, and the flush of the chems in his veins. He doesn't get as sick from it as others do, but it does make him feel a little dizzy.

“Well, we could forgo my standard fee in favor of a wager. Say, arm-wrestlin'?” Asa grins, flexing his robotic hand into a fist in front of Deacon.

The gears click and the hydraulics hiss as he does. It's made up of old parts, not of one model but several. Whoever made it did a good job with what they had, but it's very obviously not human. There is smooth, off-white plastic casing where skin should be.

“Eh, just bill me, Ace.” Deacon replies. He wants to leave but he still feels dizzy from the medicine. There are things he's got to do.

“That my special code name?” Asa asks as he cleans up his medic kit.

“You like it?”

“It's lame. Zero out of ten.”

“Now that would be a good one for you, Doctor Zero.” Deacon gestures as if he were laying the name out on a grand marquee. “Terrific implications for the survival rate of your patients.”

“You ain't dead yet.” Asa points out, finally pulling off his gas mask and letting it hang around his neck below his chin.

His face is sweaty and the drips leave clean trails through the dirt speckled across his cheeks and nose. He's grown a little scruff of a beard on his chin since the last time Deacon saw him. That was a month ago? Maybe more. Unfortunate, since Deacon prefers Asa's type of bedside manner over the more grim and serious types.

“That a threat?” Deacon asks, finally hopping down from the creaky bar-stool that was doubling as his exam table.

“More like a friendly warning. You're not leaving now.” Asa says firmly.

“Uuh, yeah, I kinda am.” Deacon replies, already pulling on his heavy, patched overcoat.

The weather is getting colder as the year swings back into autumn. He kind of wishes it were the warm and colorful season in those old Picket Fences mags. Now the only thing to signal the season is cold rain. In a few months it will be sticky, radioactive snows.

“Deacon,” Asa drops his teasing though Deacon wishes he wouldn't, “You're gonna get sick. You need rest, man.”

“Cluck cluck, mama hen,” Deacon says, grinning though Asa doesn't return it, “I'll be fine.”

Asa sighs. “I hope so. I'd say don't go undoin' all my hard work out there but-”

“I always do?” Deacon pats Asa on the shoulder before he ducks out of the infirmary shack.

He doesn't like anyone worrying over him. He's tried to keep people from getting too attached, though it still happens. Asa worrying over him feels especially undeserving. The guy has so many people in the Minutemen alone to fuss over; it's weird that he'd be equally as kind to an outsider, allies as they are. Maybe Asa is just that nice, giving everyone special treatment regardless.

Deacon doesn't know why that makes his stomach twist. He blames it on an unusually strong reaction to the whiskey and meds.

* * *

Asa finds himself thinking about Deacon during his trek to Jamaica Plain with his aid group. He probably thinks about Deacon more often than he should. He definitely thinks about him in ways that a doctor should not. It's something he can't help, really. He likes Deacon and there's not much harm in thinking about him, as long as those ideas stay in his head.

And he does worry about Deacon, genuinely. Asa understands that he has a lot of missions to run, whatever that entails for someone in the Railroad. Not many Minutemen know exactly what their synth-sympathizing friends do, Asa included. But he's not as suspicious of them; after all, he's technically part synth too.

He makes sure his work gloves are on and his sleeves are pulled down when he nears the settlement. It's better to hide his cybernetic prosthetic when he can. Some people don't mind it, especially in bigger towns like Diamond City, where they're used to unusual synths like Nick Valentine. These backwaters, though... they can be antsy. Nobody is really sure what to believe about what happened a year ago, so everyone is suspicious of everyone else

Asa would rather not have to fight his way out of another basement because some father didn't want a “synth” operating on his dying son. He could have saved that boy. Maybe it was more merciful that he didn't get a chance, fucked up as the world still is.

Luckily he and his comrades arrive safely, though there are reports of raiders trying to encroach where the ferals once were. It seems a relatively peaceful day. Asa sets to treating wounds and handing out medicine, albeit sparingly.

Nobody here is gravely wounded, but there is a cold bug going around. There’s nothing much he can do about that. One farmer in particular gets nasty with him when he won’t hand over some Med-X for his sniffles.

Asa goes to bed early. His shoulder aches from the weight of his prosthetic. It’s not like he can just take it off. It’s difficult to get comfortable. When he finally finds a good spot he still can’t fall asleep, so his mind wanders.

He thinks of Deacon again. He feels a slowly twisting warmth inside his chest. It’s embarrassing, even though he’s alone.

He knows he’s got it bad.

===

It was a slow-growing type of affection at first. Asa had met Deacon during the tumultuous days after the attack on the Institute and the Brotherhood. The Railroad had suffered many losses. The Minutemen had as well, though they had more men on their side. After the fall of the Institute and the Prydwen, his priority was helping his own people. It was Preston Garvey who asked him to assist their allies.

He remembers being lead into their bunker beneath the old church. They were so wary of him, even though he wore his militia duster. He’d been surprised by how few people there were for him to treat. Most of the others had been casualties, they said, between the invasion of the Brotherhood and the fight within the Institute.

Sensing thier apprehension of him as an outsider, Asa decided to pull off his coat. He figured letting them see his arm might melt the ice. He wasn’t a whole synth, but he wasn’t a whole man either. His arm wasn’t fleshy like a later model, but not smoothly molded like an earlier one either. He was - and still is - made of broken, mismatched parts. Once assured that he was there to help, he was directed to their most injured.

That’s how he met Deacon. Well, at first there wasn’t much of an introduction. Deacon was in a bad way. Barely able to speak or move, the man lay on a ratty, bloodstained sleeping bag on the dirt floor. It seemed like every inch of him was covered in crimson patches of hastily made bandages and tourniquets. Asa was unsure if he could save him, but he still tried.

He worked meticulously, efficiently finding the most dangerous wounds. The critical ones he operated on first, calling over one of the recently rescued synths to play nurse for him. She was scared but followed directions well. He remembers that she smiled when he said she should become a doctor when she found a safer place to live.

Hours passed, but Deacon was stabilized. Asa had gone around to the other wounded Railroad agents, treating what he could. Some were worse than others, but none as badly injured as Deacon. He learned that the Brotherhood of Steel seemingly had a hit list with Deacon’s name on it. Asa would never get to meet some of the other names scribbled upon it.

When he made his way back around to Deacon, the agent was awake. He was lucid, but in pain. Asa offered him some medicine, but Deacon refused it.

Something about the pain made Deacon feel alive, he’d said. Asa tried telling him that he would be useless if he collapsed again from pain-induced shock. Deacon just laughed.

“That was real nice of you, by the way.” Deacon said.

Asa was confused. He assumed Deacon was joking. He kneeled down to start checking over Deacon’s wounds, careful not to prod and cause him any more pain.

“What you told that girl before. ‘Bout being a doctor.” Deacon clarified.

“Oh,” Asa shrugged, “She’d be good at it ‘sall.”

“They need that.” Deacon winced when Asa peeled back a particularly large bandage to change it out for a fresh one. “They’re free now, but a lot of them have no direction. What good’s freedom without a future, you know?”

“Y'sound like a philosopher.” Asa teased him warmly.

“Hey, it’s good to be a little insightful. Bad shit happens when people are too full of themselves to see the bigger picture.” Deacon said, seeming to relax under the mindful care of Asa’s hands.

It always made Asa feel a little proud when he could tell a patient was starting to trust him.

“Y’know, I’ve heard a lot of you Railroad guys think us Minutemen are fulla ourselves too.” Asa mused as he tenderly cleaned around a wound on Deacon’s right side, just under his ribcage.

“Well…” Deacon breathed out slowly. “You are. But not in the same way, say, the B.O.S. is. At least not yet.”

“You’re very honest.” Asa laughed.

“No, I’m not, but I am a realist.” Deacon corrected him. “What about you? What do you think of us?”

Asa glanced up to Deacon’s face, catching his eyes. It was the first time he’d been able to take in Deacon’s features clearly; he’d been running on adrenaline all day, hyperfocused on saving who he could. Things had grown quiet and calm. The atmosphere felt somehow intimate, though in reality it wasn’t.

Asa thought Deacon looked very handsome, even with the scattered scratches across his face and deep bruise on his left cheek. He forced himself to look away, feeling an excited warmth vibrate through his chest.

“I think you’re too idealistic for your own good, sometimes. Gets ya in trouble. Gets good people hurt, human ‘n’ synth.” Asa finally replied.

“You’re very honest.” Deacon laughed back.

“I try t’be. World’s got too many liars as it is.” Asa finished up checking and cleaning Deacon’s wounds.

“Ain’t that the truth.” Deacon sighed.

===

In his reminiscing, Asa finally falls asleep. It’s not a long sleep. He’s awoken before daybreak by the sounds of gunfire.

The raiders have decided to raid, it seems.

Asa goes into rescue mode. He ushers as many children and infirm adults as he can into the cellar of one of the houses. The darkness at least gives them cover. The gang is more distracted by the townsfolk and minutemen currently trying to fight back.

Once the kids and sick are secured, Asa heads back up. He pulls his own pistol from the holster at his waist, under his duster. Though he usually keeps it concealed, he does know how to use it. He’s not too righteous to not consider taking a life when his own is in danger.

He joins the other able-bodied adults in trying to defend the town. He takes cover behind a stone wall, carefully timing his peeks around the corner and sides to take shots. He grits his teeth as he sees one of the farmers take a bullet in the shoulder, then another straight through the chest. The man hits the dirt hard and doesn’t move.

The settlement has very little the raiders could want, but they fight like the place was made of gold.

Asa manages to hit a few of the invaders, though he’s not sure if they are dead. The firing seems to have moved to the other side of the town. Maybe they’re trying to find another way in. He peeks one last time and sees no one moving. He decides to follow the other townsfolk to where the gunshots are louder.

Keeping low just in case, Asa sneaks careful but quick. He pauses by the farmer he saw fall minutes before. Confirming the man no longer has a pulse, he moves on.

Then he feels a tapping on his shoulder.

“Peek-a-boo.” A voice says, amused and menacing.

Asa whirls around in time to see the grinning, filthy face of one of the male raiders. The guy waves at him with one hand, in the other he carries a blood-dripping hatchet. Asa lets out a shout and quickly raises his pistol. He pulls the trigger but it does not fire. He pulls again and again, met each time with a woefully empty ‘click’.

“Aw, too bad, so sad!” The raider cackles.

Asa tries to scramble away as the man swings the hatchet upwards. He’s too slow. The blade comes down hard and heavy into his back. It carves into his shoulder, splitting the bone and sending blood gushing. Asa falls forward, screaming as he hits the dirt.

The raider pulls the hatchet out, rocking it back and forth until it comes loose from Asa’s muscle and bone. Asa manages to turn enough where he lays in the gravel to look up at the man. If he’s going to die, he wants to die face-to-face with the asshole that kills him. He watches the hatchet swing up again

Then it stops. A bullet has rocketed through the raider’s throat from behind. Asa watches him twitch, wide eyed, as blood erupts in long, gushing streams. His artery is severed. He will die.

He drops the hatchet first. Asa throws his prosthetic arm up to protect himself. The blade ends up cutting into it. That doesn’t hurt. Then the raider falls forward, dropping like a rock right onto Asa. That  _does_ hurt.

But at least he’s alive. The pain tells him he’s alive.

Asa collapses uselessly against the dirt and the world goes black.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s not often that Deacon finds himself in Sanctuary. The reception is always rather lukewarm. There are a few exceptions, of course; those who are more open to collaboration for the good of the Commonwealth and other such haughty goals. Deacon feels a strange mix of skepticism and jealousy towards those that can find so much naivety inside themselves.

Preston Garvey greets him on the bridge - he’s one of those exceptions. Preston is warm and eager. Preston smiles but with that edge of uncertainty that doesn’t fully go away. Deacon knows Preston was thrust into the role of leadership before Mika showed up. Now that she’s disappeared, he’s virtually alone again. 

He wonders what Preston really feels behind his kind smile.

“I’m glad you came,” Preston says as he shakes Deacon’s hand. “We really needed someone from your end to help.”

Deacon nods and says he’s glad to help. He doesn’t really mean it and Preston probably knows that. 

It’s not that he doesn’t think this is important; it’s that he doesn’t think he should be the one doing it. Organizing supply routes and coordinating defenses should be the work of Desdemona. Dez doesn’t exactly play nice with the Minutemen, though. Many of them don't, really.

And so, somehow, the responsibility has fallen to him instead. Oh joy.

Preston leads the way through Sanctuary, ostensibly to whichever little house they use for planning these operations. It’s strange, Deacon thinks The Castle would be a more fitting base. After all, isn’t that its point? He’s curious and bored enough to ask:

“So, what was the point of sending the Princess to save The Castle if you aren’t even gonna have any balls?” Deacon realizes the awful double entendre, and though unintended he’s pleased by it all the same.

Preston gives him a confused look, then he laughs. They walk past a house that has been modified into a sort of cafeteria. Inside there are some workers eating around a weathered wood table. Two children sit on salvaged sofas next to a small radio. Deacon can faintly hear the DJ, Travis, talking about something. He doesn’t care enough to really pay attention; he sort of liked it better when Travis was a nervous wreck. 

“Of course we have operations out of The Castle. It’s the militia headquarters.” Preston replies.

“So why do we always meet out here?” Deacon asks, stepping around a caravaner and his pack brahmin as they mosey down the road toward the bridge behind them.

“Well, this is home.” Preston doesn’t offer any further explanation. 

Deacon wonders if the real reason is that Preston doesn’t trust him to be around the real intel. He can’t really blame him. Deacon would be all over it like flies on brahmin dung.

“Not many people make a home out of a shooting gallery.” Deacon says bluntly.

Sanctuary has built up its defenses, sure. It’s even more fortified than the last time Deacon had been out this way. It’s not an actual fortress however, not like The Castle. He can’t help but look around at all the gaps in the surrounding walls, which are themselves an amalgam of scrapped together parts. It all seems nothing more than illusion of safety. Maybe that’s all a home really is.

As they walk down the seemingly ancient asphalt road, Deacon’s eyes continue to wonder over the homes and shacks around them. Some are reinforced shells of houses from Mika’s time. Others are wood or metal scraps, nailed and welded together on the foundations of old structures. Deacon idly pieces together what each building is used for; where everyone works and plays and sleeps. 

He thinks of Asa. It would be nice to see him; something to make this trip a little more pleasant. Deacon looks for him as he follows Preston deeper into the cul-de-sac, but Asa is nowhere to be found. A travelling medic is meant to travel, after all. 

Preston leads Deacon into a house near the center of Sanctuary. It doesn’t have a door, but there is a ratty blue curtain that Preston shoves aside as they enter. The glassless windows are covered with boards from the inside. The boards themselves are covered with numerous papers with handwritten notes. 

At the center of what was once the living room is a large table made of thin metal. It looks collapsible for easy transportation, though the rust crawling up its legs makes it also look like it could fall apart at any moment. There is a bare light bulb dangling from a cord over the table. The cord runs along the ceiling to one of the windows, through a notch cut through the covering board. A generator can be heard humming beyond that wall. 

Particles of dirt and dust sway through the air, caught by the light. It makes the house feel condensed. It reminds Deacon of the catacombs beneath Old North. 

On top of the table are several maps, laid side-by-side to give a full view of most of the Commonwealth. Some of the maps are old publications from before the war. Others are hand-drawn with varied degrees of detail. There are markers for settlements and points of interest; even some Railroad camps feature, though Deacon is proud that most of them aren’t marked. 

“There’s been a surge of new farms and settlements over the last year.” Preston explains as he stands by the table. “Our current routes need to be updated, and we gotta start up some new ones too.”

“Which also means we need to re-route Railroad ops, yeah yeah.” Deacon says, taking position opposite of Preston at the table. 

“Some of the new farmers expressed interest in helping your uh, refugees.” 

“And with full disclosure?”

“Well…”

“Of course not.”

They talk in a lazy code for the sake of the guards milling about the house, though Deacon is sure it’s no secret that he works with synths. It’s amusing how much people are willing to ignore something if you just don’t talk about it directly; those illusions of safety. 

Deacon supposes it’s worthwhile to play along. Like it or not The Railroad needs Preston Garvey and his people.

The Railroad is still stretched thin and even he can admit that they would be thinner without the food and supplies from the farmers. In exchange, the Railroad allows the Minutemen to acquire some of the repaired salvage from the Institute. They’ve already put much advanced agricultural and chemistry tech to use; surprising efforts for a bunch of seemingly poor and uneducated farming folk. He should know this world is full of surprises. 

Beyond surface operations, there is of course the organized effort to move refugee synths out of the Commonwealth. It’s easier with cooperation; using Minuteman towns and strongholds to expand the chain of movement and expedite their flight. But it’s still tricky to manage discreetly. Even with the Institute gone, the work to keep synths safe never seems to end. 

All of this planning takes time. Despite arriving relatively early in the day, Deacon and Preston are still mulling over the maps and plotting courses well after the sun sets. Some routes are contested, but they settle their disagreements amicably. Preston is a better leader than he likely thinks, because he can actually compromise. For his part, Deacon probably gives more concessions than Desdemona would, letting the Minutemen get their hands on even more Institute salvage. Her fault for sending him instead. 

They’re about to call it a night when a young woman bursts into the house, nearly taking down the curtain door in her rush. She’s outfitted more than a farmer or other civilian, and the way she addresses Preston makes it obvious that she’s a member of the militia. 

“Sir! I have an urgent report from Jamaica Plain! A raider attack!” She speaks quickly.

Preston swiftly snaps to attention, asking for details clearly and concisely. Deacon listens to the report too, though he’s certain none of his people are currently out that way. The Railroad knows better, with all the rumors of “buried treasure” in the area. Nobody could ever make a place like that safe.

“Casualty reports are 2 fatalities and 3 injured, including one critical: medic Asa Altmann.” 

Deacon’s chest tightens anxiously. He feels like his breath is being rung from his lungs. He never did like surprises.

Asa has always been an exception like Preston, but more so, by miles. Deacon does spare a conscious pity whenever he hears the Minutemen suffering losses, but the idea of adding Asa to that list makes his stomach turn. 

It’s a horrible ache.

“Send a report to The Castle, have them get a team into Jamaica Plain to assist.” Preston instructs the girl, calm and serious. “Have them assess for damages, stabilize the injured, keep me up-to-date.”

The girl nods, then salutes and leaves back through the curtain. Deacon watches it sway, never seeming to completely stop moving from the draft from outside. His pulse is heavy, cutting deep into his sickening guts. Outwardly he just shrugs. Really, what else can he do?

“This’s what happens when you build homes on bullseyes, Garvey.” Deacon says as he leaves as well, not waiting for a reply.

He’s anxious in a way he hasn’t been for a long time. Part of him wants to take off to Jamaica Plain right away, to see for himself what makes Asa’s condition so critical. That’s irrational, he knows. Everything about the way he feels right now is irrational. They aren’t even close, not even friends.

Deacon heads for the bunkhouses, but he finds most of the beds full. He’s not sure he’d be able to sleep anyway. There are a few people lingering around outside another house, which looks like it’s been converted to some sort of bar. It has so many strings of lights and the music is a little too loud from the tinny speakers on the radio inside. Every monster around could find them with that sort of beacon.

“This place is a bullseye too.” He mutters, continuing to walk down the road inside Sanctuary. 

For all the flac he gives that mercenary MacCready in passing, one thing they can agree on is it feels damn well safer underground. More people should think the way snipers do.

A couple of lots from the bar house is another house that is dark and quiet. Deacon recognizes it as the house Mika said she lived in before the war. It’s been reinforced, but not as much as the others. Deacon has only seen the inside once, when it was nearly empty. He wonders if they ever removed the uncomfortable wreckage of that crib from the bedroom.

Deacon steps inside and expects it to still be empty, but its not. The kitchen area is lined with boxes and various items on top of the counter-tops and central island. There are new lights strung around, connected to a power switch that he doesn’t press. Closer to the front door are a couple of beds and a stool. A darkened lamp hangs over each bed. A table sits behind the stool, with various tools and medical implements on top of it.

Mika’s house is now a hospital, it seems. It must be where Asa works when he’s home.

Deacon’s limbs feel heavy.

He decides to claim one of the beds for the night. Laying back and staring up, he can see the stars peeking through the tiny decaying holes in the ceiling. The droning of a nearby generator drowns out the sound of the revelers a few houses down. It’s quiet, but it’s not, and he feels a gentle but steady pressure in his chest, like he’s slowly being suffocated from the inside.

He makes a mental note to monitor the Minutemen’s communications closer, to keep track of the aftermath of this attack. Hope for the best, but prepare for the worst, like always. In this case the “worst” stings just a little bit more.

\---

There is no pain and no light. At first there is nothing but air. Asa can feel it moving through him, in and out, so hypersensitive it’s like every atom prickles his throat and chest. It’s almost spiritual, in a terrifying way. 

He wants to scream, but he can’t, and he panics though his breathing remains the same. He wants to force his eyes open, but he can’t. All at once he thinks  _ I’m dead I’m dead I’m dead… _

But he’s not.

Asa awakens violently. He sits up in a rush and the pain floods his body - sharp and horrendous - pulling apart the skin and muscle in his right shoulder and rolling like fire through the rest of him. Hands are on him and he can’t see who they belong to so he takes a swing with his left arm, connecting his fist into someone who cries out in pain.

More hands and voices, too close and unknown. They tell him to calm down and lay back. They don’t sound like raiders. They don’t touch him like raiders. Soft and gentle; the hands and voices of people like himself.

Asa’s breathing steadies and his panic fades. He doesn’t lay back on the bed, but he sits still. Finally he can focus. He looks around, remembering where he’s supposed to be and realizing he’s not there. People were dying in Jamaica Plain. His arm… The prosthetic is missing.

“Where-” He tries to ask where it is but is throat and mouth are too dry.

Someone hands him a glass of water from the right and he’s too thirsty to worry if it’s clean or not. He chugs it halfway down fast, before the woman who gave it to him tells him to slow down. It’ll do him no good if he drinks so fast that he pukes it back up. 

“You’re in Diamond City,” Says the woman next to him, she sounds kind and cheerful. “Welcome to the Science! center!”

“The what?” Asa asks, genuinely confused. He’s been to the city many times, but has never heard of such a place.

“Yeah, we get that a lot.” The woman sighs but doesn’t lose her good-natured tone. “Nice left hook, by the way!” 

“Oh, uh, sorry about that.” Asa feels suddenly sheepish, embarrassed for the visceral way he reacted when he woke up. 

He looks her over, immediately noticing the lab coat she’s wearing. He knows that gives very little information about whether or not she’s an actual doctor. She seems to be a middle aged woman, but that too can be misleading; people in the Commonwealth often live short and brutal lives that age them prematurely. Her hair is a little long, slightly unkempt, and red-auburn. Her blue eyes seem simultaneously happy but tired. He can’t see any mark on her to indicate where he hit her, though he knows he hit her hard.

“You okay?” Asa asks anyway.

“Oh I’m fine!” She grins. “Scara on the other hand…”

A groaning to his left grabs his attention. Standing near the wall, with a cloth pressed to her nose, is another woman. Part of the cloth is stained bright red with fresh blood; she’s obviously the one Asa actually punched. From what he can tell, she’s about the same age as the other, though with dark hair and almond-shaped brown eyes. She also wears a lab coat.

“Are you-” Asa tries to ask if she’s alright, but she interrupts.

“It’s fine.” She says with obvious irritation. “A typical response waking up from a coma.”

“Coma?” Asa is surprised. 

“Just a little coma!” The red-head chirps. “Doctor Sun thought it’d be for the best to keep you under for a week or so, and we agreed. To let you heal up and, well…”

She motions across the small room, which Asa recognizes as some sort of laboratory and not particularly a hospital or infirmary. He follows the line of her finger to a table against the far wall. There he can see his prosthetic, or what remains of it. It looks mangled, with wires and tubes dangling out from the shattered casing. 

Asa reactively reaches for his right scapula, turning his head to look too but being met with layers of bandages instead. The cloth bandages wrap around his shoulder and waist and appear clean. It all hurts tremendously.

“I left the port for your arm.” The woman called Scara explains, her gruff voice sounding a little stuffed up for obvious reasons. “But I don’t think I can repair it. Not with the shitty scrap we have, anyway.”

“Hey! I paid good caps for that scrap!” The red-head shrills.

“It’s still shit, Duff.” Scara replies. ”At least compared to Institute tech.”

“Well, that’s true. By the way, how  _ did _ you get your hands - er - hand? - on a synth prosthetic?” Duff, at least Asa assumes that’s her name, leans in super close, smiling widely with her curious eyes inquiring his. She reminds Asa of a puppy.

“Christ, give him some space. The guy just woke up.” Scara chides Duff roughly.

Asa can’t help the little laugh that leaves him as he watches the women interact. Their presence is an oddly comforting one. Scara gives him a look of incredulity, so he explains:

“You two remind me of my parents.”

“Ooh! Are they scientists too?” Duff asks eagerly.

“No. Well, not really anyway. They’re farmers, but one of my moms used to be kind of a salvager and a mechanic? She’s the one that built my arm.” 

“You expect me to believe some farm mechanic-” Scara responds suspiciously but Duff cuts her off.

“Now who’s being Miss Nosey?” Duff teases.

Asa laughs again, then winces as the motion causes his injuries to shift painfully. Duff retrieves a syringe of Med-X and offers it to Asa and he accepts. After the Med-X, she also gives him a shot from a stimpak. The combination makes him feel queasy and a little drowsy almost instantly, but the pain fades. He can feel the flesh under his bandages grow tighter as the medicine regenerates what tissue it can. He sips at his water some more.

“Most of the deep-tissue damage has healed up nicely. I tried my best to set your clavicle, but some of your articular ligaments and fossae might not heal completely.” Duff explains as she administers to him; he tries to keep up.

“Which could make your prosthetic useless anyway.” Scara says as she tosses her bloodied cloth into a beat-up trash bin by the door. “Even with the pneumatics and fine motors, it still relies on muscle and tendon movement signals from your body.”

“I thought you said that arm was too advanced to make sense of?” Says Duff.

“I said it was too complicated to fix. I understand it perfectly! What kind of professional do you take me for?!” Scara shouts, a red blush breaking out across her cheeks.

Asa chuckles, this time without pain. “It’s okay! I’ll just take it back home ‘n’ see if Ma can do anythin’ with it.”

“I think he’s saying his mom is a better scientist than you, dear.” Duff teases.

Scara lets out a frustrated shout, throwing her hands in the air as she walks away.

===

Asa stays in Diamond City a few days longer to recuperate. It’s been years since he’s taken a hit that laid him out for so long. Without the fast work of the Minutemen that ran him to the city - and the efforts of Sun, Scara, and Duff - he’d probably be dead. 

He makes sure to let his gratitude be known. He even helps Doctor Sun mix some medicine at his shop in the marketplace, though it took some convincing that he was capable with only one arm. 

When he sees some Minutemen stopping in for supplies he asks them about Jamaica Plain. The losses weren’t too heavy, though he’s disappointed to learn that there were more casualties. Still, some of them congratulate him for his work and he accepts it warmly, though internally he wonders what he should have done to make things turn out better.

He asks his friends to relay a message back to command with his status and his plans to have his arm fixed. He’s not sure when he’ll be able to get back to work, but he tells them he hopes it will be soon. As the group leaves he finds himself aching in a different way from physical.

He feels weirdly guilty. The Minutemen don’t have many medics or doctors. With him out of commission, his compatriots will have to pick up more work. He knows he’s not fit to jump back into his duties - it would be more of a hindrance if he did - but it still stings to think he’s not there to help. 

There’s always so much work to do.

Finding ways to keep busy isn’t hard in Diamond City, at least. He splits his time between check-ups with Duff and assisting Sun. The light exercise is good to help him build up his strength and keeps his injuries from healing too tight. He even offers to help Scara, though she turns him down. Duff tells him not to take it personally and always gives him a few caps to get dinner, even though he has his own meager funds. 

The Science! center already feels like a second home, complete with a secondary pair of moms.

Sometimes he helps clean the labs, or makes runs for supplies from the market. He stops by the tiny church near the entrance a couple times, to sit and enjoy the quiet comfort it offers. He doesn’t pray, not like he probably should, but he enjoys the serenity of the atmosphere all the same. 

The night before he plans to leave for his parents house Asa decides to eat at Power Noodles. He usually eats at the Dugout Inn, but Duff insisted he had to try Takahashi’s noodles at least once, overpriced as they are. She even gave him a few extra caps to do so, with much complaining on Scara’s end. 

Despite their cost, the noodles are tasty. Asa wonders if he should order a second bowl only halfway through the first. He also contemplates how the protectron actually manages the stand, being so limited in speech and movement. Someone has to be pulling the strings behind the scenes to keep this place running. Asa gets lost between his thoughts and enjoying his meal, so much that he doesn’t notice someone approaching behind him.

A hand falls heavily on his shoulder. It makes him jump in his seat. His heart slams quick and hard from the shock.

“Good Lord in Heaven! Fuckin’ hell!” He shouts, turning around on his stool to look. “Y’scared the shit outta me!”

The person that startled him is apparently a guard. He’s decked out in the typically strange Diamond City armor. Asa recalls the gear has something to do with the pre-war version of baseball, but he doesn’t remember how or why. The armor may be efficient, but it still looks ridiculous.

“Can I help you?” Asa asks in confusion. “I’m just eatin’ here...”

“Asa…” The guard’s voice is muffled behind his caged-in helmet. “Holy shit, you’re still here?”

“Uhm, yeah?” Asa is even more puzzled and uncomfortable. “Do I know you?”

Asa squints at the man, though he can’t tell anything past the helmet. Until the man lifts it and at once Asa feels his heart still, for a moment, even before the whole thing is off. Then he feels a little embarrassed.

“Deacon!” Asa perks up, a flutter beating through his chest. 

Deacon winces a little, probably because Asa says his name so loudly. Asa apologizes with a cringe of his own. They’re both grinning, however. A warmness coils in Asa’s stomach, comfortable and happy. He didn’t expect this, but he’s glad for it. He’s always glad to see Deacon.

“You knew I was here?” Asa asks, tilting his head a little.

“It’s my job, knowing things.” Deacon shrugs with a laugh. “But I didn’t expect you’d be hanging around the city so long. Figured you’d get patched up quick and hit the road.”

There’s something in Deacon’s tone that tells Asa that’s not the whole truth. He can’t single out one particular phrase or anything, feeling only in his gut that there’s something more that Deacon is not saying. Asa doesn’t dwell on it, instead turning on his stool to show off his obvious lack of a limb. His long-sleeve on that side dangles empty and flat at his side.

“This’s kinda beyond a patch-up job.” Asa indicates. 

“Damn.” Deacon lets out a low whistle. “It’s that bad?”

Asa narrows his eyes, playfully suspicious. “I’d think y’would figure that one out, bein’ a professional thing-knower.”

“Okay, okay, so I knew it was bad.” Deacon admits, taking a seat on the stool next to Asa. “Does it feel weird?”

Asa shrugs, though the action sort of makes his shoulder ache. “Hurts a bit, but it’s not really weird. Didn’t always have the prosthetic before, y’know.”

“You gonna get a new one?” Deacon asks.

He reaches for the cuff of Asa’s empty sleeve. It’s strange that Asa feels his pulse quicken, knowing that Deacon is a curious guy and certainly seeing him like this must have piqued him. For a moment Asa sort of wishes Deacon were reaching for his real wrist, wanting for an intimacy he’s pinned over for a year now. He wonders if it would be so bad to just come out and ask if Deacon feels the same, but he’s too worried by the prospect of being rejected. 

Asa clears his throat a little before answering. “Gonna see if I can get the old one fixed. Not sure if my Ma can build a brand new one.”

“So you’re going home?”

Asa nods. “For a bit.”

“Where?”

Pausing, Asa considers carefully before he replies. He’s always been protective of his parents. That’s part of the reason he joined the Minutemen in the first place. Their farm is small - tiny compared to most others - but that doesn’t really make them any less of a target for enterprising outsiders. And he doesn’t want to get them involved in the politics between factions out here either.

Something tells him, however, even if he doesn’t say it Deacon would find out anyway. 

“A lil south, by the river. On the edge of the Glowing Sea.”

Deacon lets out a low whistle. “Tough area to live in. Long walk too.”

“I’ll manage.” Asa says confidently, because he’s certain of his route and has made the trip plenty of times.

“You’re going by yourself?” 

Deacon’s tone isn’t exactly worried, more amused, but it pulls at something inside Asa. Makes him feel ticklish and tense all at once. He knows it’s too much to want Deacon to go with him. It’s downright selfish, because Asa is sure he can make it on his own and he’s also sure Deacon has other responsibilities. They always part too soon, saying too little, and Asa wants too much.

“Of course. I’m a big boy.” Asa teases and hopes that his wanting doesn’t taint his words.

“I’ve gotta head that way anyway.” Deacon says too casually. “Mind if I tag along ‘til then?”

Asa feels his stomach bottom out into butterflies, frenetic and blistering hot with the friction of their metaphorical wings. It’s so sudden. He should know better than to take Deacon by his word. Knows enough that he should be suspicious about how convenient the circumstances are. Probably foolishly, he shoves those thoughts away.

He’s excited, he can’t help it, but he tries his best to contain it for the sake of not making things weird. Instead he just nods, and smiles kindly at the offer.

“Yeah, sure. Don’t mind at all.”


End file.
